


At death do us part

by A_Quiet_Place



Series: Dream Weavers Anonymous [2]
Category: Constantine (2005), Constantine (Comic), Constantine (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Dream Manipulation, M/M, Revenge, Substance Abuse, tormented mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14727945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Quiet_Place/pseuds/A_Quiet_Place
Summary: Balthazar has found a way to really get into John's head from the confines of hell, and he's going for broke to ensure his revenge is seared into John's mind in as many ways possible.Will make more sense reading part one of the series.





	1. Novocaine for the soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mish mash of the comic, tv series and movie ( of which I own nothing). I have frankenstiened them all to create this, while trying to make it as easy to follow as possible, feedback is appreciated!
> 
> Part 1 is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260120/chapters/18925030

Balthazar feels an enormous sense of satisfaction as the insects part from John's body, leaving the gaping husk of the blond behind. It brings back fond memories of their dalliances in the past. Balthazar had once killed John's friend this way, Waspman? Bug man? Something ironic, in a move he had borrowed from Beelzebub himself.

He tugs the cuff of his sleeve and smiles to himself, taking the time to memorize how good John looked like this. It has been extremely gratifying, especially with that final moment of clarity for Johnny-boy. What pain that memory must have brought with it, feelings the man refuses to let surface of yet another friend destroyed due to his lifestyle. It's delicious to watch the pain form behind those usually cocky eyes.

Balthazar has had plenty of time to come up with ways to get at John. Time has no hold in the fire-torn landscape that surrounds him. Every moment is an eternity. He'd felt a twisted sense of appeasement when he had finally found a way to reach out of hell and wrap his hands around the blond man’s neck. His revenge is so very sweet.  
  
John deserves every moment of the trauma Balthazar has for him, sharing a little portion of his hell with the Englishman is the very least he can do to show his undying appreciation for the... exportation.

There is a humiliating title in hell for being exported by a super-naturalist. For a half-demon this title includes tortures beyond the mortal world, humiliations and servitude. In short, sending Balthazar to the fiery abyss had been an act of war, condemning him to be nothing more than a slave or whipping boy when he is a king among mortal men. He is wasted here.  
  
Half-bloods are only a small step above tortured soul, little more use than a toy for other demons and devils, they are more suited to life on the mortal realm where their skills can bridge the gap between Hell and Earth.

The humiliation Balthazar dealt with in the depths drove him to the brink of madness in his hunger for revenge.

Lucifer has found such terrible punishments to inflict on the half-demon for his betrayal. The hounds that tirelessly hunt him rip flesh off his body and devour it before his eyes when they catch him, leaving him twisted and jagged in appearance. He is damned to an eternity of running and cowering, and this is just the beginning, Lucifer has until judgement day to inflict his disappointment onto Balthazar. The half-bloods maligned soul will be twisted and frayed beyond recognition by the end, just another screaming bundle of madness and pain to add to the princes ever growing collection.

It has taken so long to reach out, to use his remaining connections to find those who dare help him with the baying of hounds at his back. Desperate men always make the best bargains, and he has found them all one by one, curling their wants and selfish desires around their necks and pulling them tight to his side.

The large debt Balthazar owes to get what he needed from the surface is so very worth it. He has had his pick of witches and warlocks, all willing to throw themselves before a real demon, all desperate for the knowledge and trinkets that will in no way serve them in the hell they are heading for. It has diminished the decades of collecting Balthazar dedicated his mortal life to, but it is no matter, all those things and more he will possess again when Johnny-boy is at his beck and call.

The trouble had not been finding willing minions, they are a dime a dozen in this day and age, but that John has always been so careful and so prepared. Getting around his defenses takes no little effort or creativity, especially when the object is not to kill John, oh no, the mortal will only end up in Lucifer's grasp in death and Balthazar knows whatever is left of John after the Prince of Lies is through with him will not be worth taking.

It presented itself as a bit of a problem, how was he to inflict a world of pain and torment to exact his revenge without handing Constantine, pretty pink bow and all, over to the fallen one. It has taken an age, five years to be exact, but when finally there was an answer, when finally there was a way to get at the dare-devil John Constantine, Balthazar wasted no time in throwing himself at it.

It had all been so simple in the end. After all, what better place to attack than inside John's own head?

All he had to do was wait until Constantine's luck ran out, and run out it eventually had. His time came to strike when the Englishman had meddled with a monster from the pits who's howl had flung the super-naturalist against the cement flooring of an industrial warehouse, cracking his fragile skull hard enough to render him unconscious.

John's cohorts had rushed to protect his body, keeping the man alive by some 'miracle' although very trapped in his comatose mind. They milled about him on the way to the hospital unaware that John's numerous wards and expelling runes were unattended, unaware that one of his employers worked for Balthazar. A few magic words here and there, the spilling of innocent blood and so forth later and the half-breed had slipped in to John's mind like foot into a well worn shoe.

It felt obscenely good.

He can make and distort realities using Constantine's memories, he can tear down and rebuild the life John has, kill him in a thousand different ways, torture him with the deaths of loved ones, and impossible futures all before John has actually died.  
  
The Half-blood allows himself a smile, a moment to absorb the pain that lingered behind as John's mind tries to pull away, from the latest concoction, protect him from the invasion and onslaught of pain. But Balthazar has already planned the next adventure, already decided what special torments and emotions he wants to rip from the man.

He hums in pleasure, the seventh death has definitely been the best so far, but he can do better. The first three had been about instant gratification, he'd 'murdered' John the moment the man had fallen unconscious, bringing him forcefully within Balthazar's grasp in the unprotected realms of Constantine’s mind. Throat slitting, beating, burning, those deaths had just been revenge for how John had deported him back to hell during the traitorous regime of Gabriel. The mind games, they are for fun. It is true that the pain he inflicts on the mortal is not something John actually feels, but the fear, that is real, and it is delicious.

Now the half-demon is getting creative, finding ways to pin down John's dreams, to warp them to a new reality, one where he can hunt and install fear in the infuriating Englishman and know that each time John screams or cries or despairs it is because Balthazar wills it. He is god in John's dreams, and nothing else can compare to the absolutely exhilarating feeling that gives him.

Balthazar lets himself fall through the dream-scape, he will eventually be sucked into John's newest dream, from there he will just have to mold it to fit the torture of his choosing. The world about him distorts and stretches, fading in and out of tangibility. Balthazar will work with anything John's mind supplies him, prepared to stretch and break momentum as he sees fit. It doesn't even matter if John realizes he's dreaming at this point, a new scenario, a new set up later and he will have forgotten once more, he is the perfect story board.

Some would say Balthazar is obsessed, taking such a small thing from the man, while the cost is so high on his end, as he travels in the other man's mind he is alarmingly unprotected where he has hidden himself away, at the mercy of those around him. The dream walking spell requires that he is also in a comatose state; the hounds of hell are baying for him in the distance even now, but it doesn't matter. He had to get at John, he had to take something back from the man, and there is no guarantee John will carry on living long enough for Balthazar to find his way back to the surface to do it in person. As long as Constantine is unconscious he has complete control.

When the dream-scape around him changes, rebuilding itself in less than a moment, Balthazar immediately begins his work. He is unfamiliar with the room that forms itself around him: the boilers become furniture, the patterns of brick now rotting wood and peeling wall paper, the clutter of a country side home with signature earthy smell and mossy looking windows. It is large enough to facilitate the collection of trinkets and piled up books, artifacts, stacks of scrolls and wooden carvings.

A large table in the center of the room hosts a full map of the state, covered in darts, strings, suspicious looking spots of dark caked substances. Balthazar wanders the room with a casual stroll, hands buried in his pant pockets, his eyes brushing over the books. The titles blur where John can't recall the names, and some are even upside down and backward.

Several ash trays are scattered about the room littered with cigarette butts and ash and accompanied with empty bottles of varying strengths of alcohol. The half-demon allows a satisfied smile to cross his face, this is a place Constantine holds refuge, one of his safe houses, and here he had always thought of John as a city boy.

New inspiration hits him as the scene lays out, such a safe and comforting place of operations really needs a torment with a bit more kick. Something that reminds Johnny-boy in his waking hours of what happened in this place.  
  
Just killing John is a pleasure in itself, but that will not keep him satisfied for long. Knowing it isn't real, that John's body will not bare the scars of their encounters or the feeling of intense pain he wishes upon the man, knowing that the details of their soirees will be forgotten or dismissed as nothing but nightmares makes Balthazar aim for something more.  
  
Anything can kill John, that isn't special, that isn't what will leave a mark on the man who had walked at hells door and been dragged from the abyss many times already. Fear and death are Constantine’s modus operandi, no, death is not going to be enough.

Balthazar traces a finger along the carvings over the door frames, the warding held no sway in his dreams, at least not for Balthazar and his nefarious meddling, but John doesn't know that.  
He can hear a heated argument through the walls, the sound of smashing plates, the baritone of John's anger. The argument is the same old tune, be a hero and never compromise or die a lonely bastard with guilt laden shoulders. The half-demon scoffs at the pretense of it all, but it is usable.

He turns his eyes on the fire place, willing the fire to set itself into being. Clutter disappears from the arm chair before it, the thread bare rug beneath his feet suddenly gains a new lease of life. He needn't see John to lure him to where he wants him, a concentrated thought pulls the Englishman from his argument and into the lounge where the fire crackles invitingly. Balthazar makes himself undetectable, nothing more than a passing shadow as a tired looking Constantine walks into the room, his hands clasping a bottle of bourbon like it's his life source.

The Englishman walks towards the fire without a hint of uncertainty, the when or hows of the dream world meant nothing, it was like picking up a well remembered book and flicking to any page, John's mind would just accept changes as part of his internal narrative. It is admittedly a simple set up, nothing as elaborate or drawn out as the last dream, but it will suit the purpose admirably.  
  
Constantine moves to the padded seat, sinking down into with a groan. His head hits the upholstery of the faux leather chair at the same instant his eyes close. The bourbon clasped in one of his hands tips precariously towards the rug. Balthazar's shadow-like hands trace along the top of the chair a few center meters above the blond hair of the Englishman.

The urge to maim, to drag Constantine to hell makes his fingers twitch, he could show the man just what was in store for him, take him on a personal tour as it were, but the death defying human has seen enough of hell to haunt him already. That wont cement Balthazar in his head, besides, reality checks are not really the half-bloods style, and one little slip up would show John the true extent of the tortures that were being raged upon his own person.

It would be too close to home, too risky.  
  
Instead, Balthazar aims somewhere a little closer to John. Those innocuous little habits the man has built on over the years, like a wall of self abuse that separates him from the rest of humanity. His actions scream of a man convinced that it is all for the greater good, that one person could not out-weigh the needs of many, the throws of his desperation send a thrill through the half-demon.  
  
Balthazar had heard the whispers in hell, those condemned by John thought of him often, their screams and curses on his name, ring throughout the tortured landscape. The wailing and the gnashing of teeth from those he had left behind or deported rang like the chiming of church bells throughout the kingdom. Even Lucifer wants a piece of him. Knowledge like that has to weigh something on a man's soul.  
  
John's solution is to blanket out the pain with alcohol, cigarettes and sex, even in his dreams.

With such tools readily at his disposal, Balthazar has enough ammunition really dig into the blond's heart and soul. He cants his head slightly as he regards the bourbon clenched in John's hand, the amber liquid turns a shade or two darker without the knowledge of the distracted mortal. Next, the cigarette packet in John's pocket, always on the brink of empty now full and sealed, that part was for Balthazar's own pleasure. The smile on the half-demons lips is grinch-like in anticipation, the show is about to start.


	2. Death of a Supernaturalist

It takes a large amount of effort for John to relax the muscles in his shoulders, the smashed dishes in the kitchen can wait. Ann-Marie always winds him up-- even in death there is that ever present sense of anguish John feels whenever she appears, the guilt will swallow him whole if he lets it.

He had begged her to leave, and when she hadn't he allowed himself to slip into the destroyed man he had grown to be, just for a moment, but that was all it took and it was all she wanted, to see the bleeding soul beneath the callous surface. Her specter is just a ghost of his own failings, appearing and then vanishing when he finally cracks enough to take his self loathing out on her.  
  
She is one of many lost souls that in life had projected images of a stalwart hero over him like he's some knight in a fairy tale. He has never asked for it or given them any indication that is who he is, one might even say he has done his absolute best not to give off that impression. Peoples expectations of heroes are pretty bloody high.

John is tired of it, tired of them, tired of the guilt that follows him around like a one man storm cloud.

The Englishman stares at the flames, his hand clenching and unclenching around the bottle of bourbon. He can't remember if he had ever bothered to light the fire before in the entire time he has used this house, but the soft crackling and the warm glow soothed his nerves, and he can't bring himself to question it right now.

An early retirement seems a most inviting prospect, the thought makes him snort softly as he lifts the bourbon bottle to his lips-- glasses were for people who wished to measure their quantities. He grimaces at the sharp burn in the back of his throat and coughs slightly at an unfamiliar taste, ashy and bitter on his tongue. A frown creases his brow as he leans in to sniff the bottles contents. There is a familiarity to the smell the drink emits, the woody scent of the bourbon hiding a hint of something else... something bitter. It tugs at his memory, and a sense of unease and regret follow with it, nothing John wants to deal with right now, the very idea turns his stomach.  
  
He glares at the bottle accusingly, wondering at how his respite could betray him at a time like this, and as if in answer his minds eye recalls the image of Hennessy as he lay prone on the liquor store floor, eyes wide open and staring as he dribbles alcohol from his open mouth.  
  
John squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, trying to clear the image. He flings the bottle to the fire without so much as a second thought, the glass shatters against the brick and spills onto the carpet as the fire hisses and roars, soaking the room in that strong alcohol smell.

It doesn't help, it's like Hennessy is laying before him on the rug, the echo of his death throws on display. If John dared glance down he's certain to find the ghostly form of the man staring up at him accusingly. So he keeps his gaze fixedly upward.  
  
“Not today!” His voice rings out harshly in the dim room. He hates the way his voice cracks, the way the knot in his chest tightens painfully restricting his breath and causing tears to form in his eyes. He wonders if he even has the ability to cry any more. After all that he has lived through his heart should be like stone, but the guilt keeps chipping away at it nevertheless.  
  
He fumbles with his cigarettes, tearing the packaging open with violent jerks of his hands, if it had called for it he would have used his teeth as well, such is his need. He feels the first ebbs of calm the moment the filter fits between his lips. The sound of the match strike with familiar smell of phosphorus settles his nerves. The first lung full of nicotine is like a heaven sent wave of bliss. John's eyes closed in momentary respite, the tenseness in his shoulders unraveling as he exhales.  
  
His eyes are half open when the sudden scent of sulfur invades his senses, his hands sink into his pockets with practiced swiftness as he reaches for the flask of holy water he keeps always on his person, and the re-smelted gold knuckle dusters.|  
  
His eyes dart carefully around the room behind half closed eyelids, alert but playing possum. A thick annoyance settles into his slouched form. There is no way any demon should be able to get into his house, let alone find it. Whatever this is, it isn't going to be good.  
  
The second inhale and exhale of cigarette while he waits for his guests appearance proves to be the source of the scent. He relaxes only fractionally and looks at the packet in confusion. They are his usual brand, freshly opened, no special ingredients that included the fart smell of demon, but there it is.

The more he thinks about it, the more he can taste it. It sticks to the back of his throat and lungs. He coughs heavily, glaring daggers around the room as he stubs the cigarette out on the chair arm. His hand pulls the flask of holy water from his pocket and rips the lid off in preparation for a fight.  
Whatever demon has decided to possess his cigarettes is about to have a bad day.

He douses the packet in holy water and utters the first lines of the exorcism prayer, then looks perplexed when nothing happens. He tries again, brow furrowed in frustration.

Then he hears it.

Softly at first, coiling around his ears like gentle loops of smoke, quiet whisperings of a myriad of voices. John leaps upward, spilling his flask and cigarettes on the rug in his haste. He makes it three strides toward the warding spells on his doors when the whispers grow louder and louder still until he can make out individual voices, hundreds of tones layering on each other in a grim cacophony. His jaw clenches tightly shut as their words swirl around him, growing into agonized howls and screams of rage so profound Constantine grips the sides if his head and stumbles against the wall an vain attempt to shut them out.  
  
The packet, now spilled on the floor, begins to smoke despite its wetness. A trail of whispers rising like spirits from the grave in its wake. They call his name like a curse and babble over each other to tell him what he has done to them.

He has no memory of sitting back down in the chair by the fire, so distracted by the horrifyingly familiar tones that call to him. It also doesn't occur to him to question how the room appears to rotate around him so that he is back facing the fire, because he knows each and every one of the voices recounting their ends to him. He is the one responsible for putting them in their graves.

He is at the point of screaming when it all suddenly ceases. The silence in the room leaves him stunned and panting, the saturated box at his feet just another ruined packet of cigarettes that he had tried to exorcise. (It isn't the first and certainly wont be the last.)

His shoulders shake with uncontrollable sobs as his hands cradle his face. He sinks forward in the chair gasping and wiping the trails of tears that have inexplicably formed on his cheeks. This is not him, any attack like this should bring out a destructive anger in John, he needs to build up his walls and take out whatever it is that has chosen to fuck with him like this. But he is suddenly so bone tired he can barely muster the energy to swear.  
  
His shoulders seize up when two cool hands run across them, gently stilling their shudders. John's head jerks around, eyes searching for the owner of the hands, or even the hands themselves but finds nothing solid to place his anger. All there is is just the gentle but certain pressure of someone soothing his muscles.  
He jerks forward with the intent of leaping from the chair, knuckle dusters at the ready but finds himself unable to move. The insistent pressure on his shoulders gentle but confining as he is forced to sink back into the upholstery.

Prayers snuff out on his lips as his voice cracks and betrays him and the knuckle-dusters just seem to vanish. His frantically searching hands bring nothing forth by way of defenses and the spilled flask of holy water is nothing more than a puddle at his feet. His heart begins to pound in his chest but his struggles are only tiring him out against the firm but certain strokes on his shoulders. Rasps of breath are the only sound he manages to emit, and they sound desperate in his own ears. The invisible hands knead into the knots at his neck as if trying to remove the stress they are causing with their presence.

He freezes when warm breath tickles the back of his neck.

“How much pain these memories cause you.” A whisper, almost smug, followed by something that might be the tip of a nose brushing past the shell of his ear. “Where does the blame for this misery really lay? Actions and choices forced on you by those around you cannot be solely your fault.” The hands slide down his arms and run soothingly towards clenched fists.

John struggles to speak, his body twists to evade the caress but ultimately has no means of escape. Sharp teeth nip at his ear eliciting a jump of surprise from the Englishman, his mouth opens to object, to swear and to send the demon back to where it belongs but only rasps of air came out through moving lips.  
  
“You carry a lot on your shoulders, Johnny-boy, and you know it will follow you to the grave.” The exploring hands roam over the thin fabric of the shirt covering his chest, while John freezes once more. Only one half-blood piece of shit calls him Johnny-boy. The whole night falls into place- why the torments were so god-damned specific, like a slap to the face. He mouths the demons name and bares his teeth to express his anger unable to voice it exactly how he would like at this point in time. But he can wait.

There's a noise near his ear, a pleased rumble as John rasps the half-bloods name like a curse followed by the tut-tutting when John turns his head and spits towards the invisible piece of shit.

“Come on, Johnny-boy, we've done this dance so many times, how about we change it up a beat?” The hands stop their roaming and rest themselves back on his shoulders, resuming their kneading “Let's forego the cursing and demands, the violence and the questions you desperately want to scream at me, hm?” The half-demon leans over him, suddenly and inexplicably in full view. His impeccable hair, rich suit and miss-matched tie just as John remembers them. “Let's just cut right to the chase.” His words almost whispered in their curt and smug delivery.

John glares at those red-glinting brown eyes, pointedly struggling once more.  
“I'm going to paint you a picture,” The practiced smile he gives John is just as infuriating as it has always been. “You have an evening of repercussion free action at hand, nothing you say, do or feel matters. It has no impact on the outside world, and no one save you or I will ever know of it.”  
John growls as Balthazar noses at his ear like a lover.

“Your shame is nothing to me, Johnny-boy, you've got precious few hours before you get sent down below to the big boss himself. Then you can live out every guilty action over and over while Lucifer himself masturbates over your soul.” The half-blood is almost purring, he leans down to breath the words against John's neck.

“For a brief moment while we are here in limbo you can spend your time without the weight of all those tortured souls breathing down your neck. Don't you feel like it's owed to you, Johnny-boy? Before you get sent down, down, down.” John jerks his head to the side, but the snarl on his lips dies away with the blood from his face as his eyes take in the room around him. There are the shades of everyone he had ever been in contact with who has died, standing around him with accusation, despair, or malevolence. The children he couldn't save, the friends he had let sacrificed for the greater good.

God, Gary Lester, free from the hunger demon, filled with anguish over John's betrayal. Sister Ann-Marie back for the second time in one evening to haunt him, and many others, so many others. John squeezes his eyes shut, willing them all away, all the while Balthazar rubs his shoulders soothingly, his words like liquid honey in the desperate man's ears.

“I can make them all go away, Johnny-boy, my gift to you before the end. A moment of peace and quiet, a moment without all the world biting at your back. Believe me, you will never get this chance again in life or death.” The spirits begin to move in, each whispering how they had died, each of them retelling how it is John who had lead them to their ends.

Hesseny, Beeman, Chas, Gary, Ann-Marie; John can name them all over and over until the day he dies, remember the exact moment each of them had perished, where he had been; how it had been his fault. Balthazar is right, not even death would free him of his conscience. The grace of God has no place for a man like him, not when he can't ask for forgiveness, not when he hates himself too much to dare think to beg.

There is only one place he will end up.

His eyes squeeze shut again as the ghostly whispers wash over him.

“I only ask one small thing from you Johnny-boy, and all this is gone.” There it is, the devils bargain spoken through a suit and tie. “Give yourself to me and I will give you quiet.” The lips enclose on his earlobe, followed by teeth and hot breath.

The answer is irrevocably no, in his mind he screams that he deserves all this weight, losing it would take away all the meaning of their deaths, and this is Balthazar, the half-demon who had killed two of his allies just to get at John. But there is something else here, the way the hands on his shoulders seem to lift the pain out of him, as if they are drawing poison from a wound. The way the spirits around him stay just out of reach, their clear eyes watching perhaps with a hint of fear?

When the half-blood exhales, a long and purposeful sigh, the ghosts move back as if the warmth of his breath pushes them away like leaves scattering in the wind. A peculiar ease falls over John like he hasn't felt for a long, long time, before he became tangled in the supernatural. He had forgotten what it was like before the weight of the world was on his shoulders. The breath he takes is almost light, almost relief. It's never wise to trust a demon, there is always a catch, but he knows that Balthazar is right, this opportunity will never come up again. This beautiful feeling is fleeting but worth its weight in gold. He has already failed each and every one of these ghosts in some way, what more can they expect from him? There isn't going to be salvation, not for any of them.

John tries to speak, his answer comes out as a rasp at first but his voice quickly returns for him to repeat it.  
“Yes.”

Balthazar smiles against his skin and raises a hand to turn John's head towards him, capturing his lips in a rough kiss. John grips the arms of the chair as teeth and tongue demand entrance into his mouth. Sharp but careful bites rain down on his soft lips until he relents with a slight groan, parting his mouth enough for the half-blood's lips to slot against his. When he finally returns the hungry kiss Balthazar's tongue flicks encouragingly against his own, and the firm hand on Constantine's jaw releases slowly.

The kneading fingers at John's shoulders slide downwards against his chest, finding their way into his clothing and caress against the skin underneath. The watchful eyes of the spirits around him fade one by one until they have all just disappeared, taking the weight on John's shoulders with them as if it had truly been a physical thing.

Constantine feels light headed, the warm pads of the half-bloods thumbs circle the sparse hair about his nipples in an almost loving way, sending shivers up the Englishman's spine. He can't believe the relief he feels, it's almost orgasmic in its arrival and he has to choke back a moan before it slips into Balthazar's mouth. The lips against his own are warm and inviting and the clever tongue coaxes him into sinking deeper into the kiss.

Balthazar doesn't taste sulfuric like John expected, he tastes human, slightly minty even from whatever he has consumed, it's easy to forget who he's kissing and why.

He is no stranger to men, but demons, this is very new, and very stupid, but as much as he hates the half-blood he can't deny the creature is right. He does need a break and as this is going to be the only chance he ever has.

Fuck it.

He figures the universe owes him this little respite for however long it lasts. Right now the only things in the world are John and Balthazar.

The mouth parts from his own, a string of saliva stretches between their swollen lips and snaps as Balthazar leans down to kiss and nip at the tender flesh of John's neck. Constantine closes his eyes in pleasure and shifts his hands, slowly reaching up suited arms and feeling the silky fabric beneath.

When the demon pulls back it is so he can shift to be in front of John. His eyes are dark with lust and a small wicked smile spreads across his full kiss-swollen lips. John takes the respite to peel the expensive jacket off Balthazar's shoulders, then slowly, without breaking eye contact he reaches up and crooks a finger into the mismatched tie to loosen it. The dark eyes glint at him as he then moves on to the top button of crisp white shirt, popping it free with calculated and controlled movements.  
  
Balthazar licks his lips and hums in appreciation, he leans forward to capture John's mouth again, flicking his tongue into the warmth of the Englishman to taste their shared saliva. Busy manicured hands slide up John's thighs with a delicious and deliberate slowness and John's blood rushes south. His hands grip the faux leather of the armchair tightly as a firm pressure to his inner thighs silently requests he part his legs. John doesn't fight it.

Constantine lets out a quiet groan between wet lips as the man between his legs presses forward allowing for their shared arousal to brush against each other through the remaining fabric between them. The friction is teasing and frustrating and feels so good he's almost tempted to wrap his legs around the suits hips to force him closer. Instead his own hands grip at barely clothed shoulders, trying to be patient in their search for flesh but failing horribly as they tug at the starched collar of the pristine white shirt. He fumbles like a school boy with the remaining buttons and becomes desperately flustered in his need to feel the skin of their chests press together.

Balthazar hums a laugh into John's mouth before pulling back just enough to begin kissing down the skin of his neck once more and down further towards his collar. The blond swallows thickly, this is still a terrible, terrible idea, but he can't take his eyes off Balthazar's as those lips kiss and suckle their way down his chest. The half-demon brushes John's hands aside from their ineffectual floundering to begin dismantling the magus' own in-expensive shirt, far better practiced with the delicate undoing of buttons. The long fingers graze skin teasingly as the last of the shirt comes slowly open, exposing his revealed flesh to wet lips and blunt teeth.

_Fuck, this shouldn't feel this good._

John bites his lip, trying not to arch into the touch, trying not to give away just how fast the pleasure has pooled in his nether regions. A sharp intake of breath gives him away as the half-blood found and teases a nipple between his teeth. He glances up at John and smirks a little broader before continuing his path downwards over the quivering stomach and down the soft trail of hair from the navel. Long elegant fingers flick over the waist band of John's slacks and underwear teasingly before tugging them down enough to expose the curls they had hidden to the generous mouth.

John is all to keen to help shed fabric, lifting his hips upwards to slide out of them while simultaneously pressing into the teasing mouth. His almost trembling hands bury themselves into the perfect crown of dark hair when his cock is finally released from the confines of his pants. He's half hard and twitching with interest at the ever closing distance to the half-demons mouth.

Balthazar breathes in deeply, black eyes regard John's length before raising to his face, his smile is predatory despite his lowered position. His fingers trace over hardening flesh as he teases Constantine's length with his hot breath, sending goose flesh over the mortals stomach.

John can't imagine how he must look in comparison to the composed half-demon kneeling before him. He is almost panting with his growing need, mouth agape, eyes dilated with lust in the fire light. Any of his final concerns are quickly dismissed when the hot mouth closes around his engorged flesh. John's eyes snap shut, the back of his head hits the padding of the chair behind him with a solid thump as a strangled moan fights past his lips. The hands stroking his thighs make John shift and shudder as his sensitive flesh begins tingling at the contact. When he finally opens his eyes to watch the demon's mouth work over his cock with obscene suckling noises he has to restrain himself from thrusting upwards.

Balthazar never takes his eyes off John, as if daring the mortal to forget the image before him, all the while his mouth and hands stay dedicated to their task of consuming and stoking the fires in Constantine's body. A deep hum and a swirling tongue kicks John's breathy moans up a notch, they spill out of his lips unbidden as his hands bury themselves in the half-bloods hair, urging him on.

_Fucking shit, bollocks, yes._

He is already so close, his whole body seems to tingle as the knot of pleasure builds up in his lower abdomen, his pelvis slowly bucks into the hot and welcoming mouth, beginning to take the pleasure for himself. When those clever hands squeeze the tender globes of his scrotum John lets out a gasp, his body going taught like a bow-string.  
“I'm going to-” He chokes out.

Balthazar doesn't let him finish, his mouth suddenly pressing forward to take in as much of the Englishman as he can. John lets out a surprised yelp as he orgasms, his head thrown back and his hands grip the half-demons hair much too hard as the spasms wrack his body.

When he falls bonelessly back against the chair Balthazar stands slowly, dabbing at his lip with a handkerchief, a self satisfied smile positively radiant on his perfect features. John is dully aware that the half-blood has swallowed and he isn't in the right mindset to decide whether or not that is disturbing.

He manages a tired “Why?” as he half-heartedly tidies himself up, tugging his slacks upward enough to cover his shame. He is so exhausted all of a sudden that the world around him seems to blur and warp with his lack of focus. He should be ashamed or at the very least annoyed with himself that he never thought to ask what Balthazar got out of all of this, but he can barely keep his eyes open.

“You did me an awful disservice sending me back to hell.” That almost whispered tone tugs at the Constantine's consciousness, dark with unspoken threats, begging him to listen before he sinks into the abyss of sleep. “You are going to pay me back over and over, in as many ways as I can think of.”

John feels alarm trickle through his mind, but it is already so hard to keep himself awake.

The silken voice murmurs next to his ear just before the darkness of a new dream pulls him away. “I'm just getting started, Johnny-boy.”


End file.
